


The Road Not Travelled

by Dash O_Pepper (pfeffermuse)



Category: Gilligan's Island
Genre: Angst, Doppelganger, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pfeffermuse/pseuds/Dash%20O_Pepper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes in life we must make choices based on our conscience; yet rarely do we get a glimpse of the choices we don't make. When one of the Professor's experiments goes awry, he has the opportunity to face the choices—good and bad—that he's made within his lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer :** |  _Gilligan's Island_ is a registered trademark of Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS), Gladysya Productions and MGM/United Artists Television. This work of fan fiction is not meant in any way to infringe on copyrights already held by these companies and/or their subsidiaries.  
> ---|---  
> **Author's Note :** | This work originally appeared on [FanFiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11302520/1/The-Road-Not-Travelled) under my pseudonym there, Dash O'Pepper.  
  
* * *

**_So much for meteorology being an exact science_** **, thought Professor Roy Hinkley,** as he and Skipper Jonas Grumby began their examination of the typhoon's damage to the scuttled _S.S. Minnow_.

While the Professor's knowledge of boats was limited; he had familiarity with engineering, and the Skipper's seamanship would make up for his lack of nautical prowess.

From a cursory examination, it appeared that the outer holes would be repairable; it was when they began the inspection of the _S.S. Minnow_ 's inner frame that both men's hearts sank. While not immediately noticeable, it was clear from an in-depth examination that the frame of the boat had been battered and twisted in the storm. Without the proper tools—even if there was a way to fashion them—the _Minnow_ would still need a shipyard to repair the damage it had sustained.

"What do we tell the others?" The Skipper's tone was solemn.

"The truth, of course." Being a scientist, the Professor was not one to believe in sugar-coating the obvious.

"Professor, if we tell them, they'll have nothing to hope for. The transmitter's a lost cause." It was an accident that his first mate's fishing line had snagged the device, and flung it into the depths of the Pacific, but he still cringed at the memory. "And you heard the radio reports, the Coast Guard's called off the search."

"I still believe everyone would want to know the truth."

"A little white lie would be more likely to give them some hope."

The Professor was about to respond on the futility of hope in their current situation, but the big man continued, "Our survival's gonna depend on everyone working together, right?"

The question was rhetorical, but the Professor acquiesced on that point of argument, and nodded.

"Sometimes hope's the only thing that'll keep a man going."

"And what happens to 'hope' when they finally realize the _Minnow_ will never float again?"

"With a little luck and God's help, we'll be rescued long before that."


	2. It Was Only a Theory

* * *

**It had been five years since he and the Skipper had agreed on their _little white lie._**

Strangely enough, thought the Professor, there had been no repercussions. Even when it had become evident that the _S.S. Minnow_ would never again be seaworthy, the hope of rescue still remained strong among them all.

They had created a community: It was to him a fascinating study on what the better nature of humanity could accomplish if given the chance.

At this time of year—the anniversary of their shipwreck—his heart ached that he had lied to people who had become more dear to him than family. But he would never break the oath he had made with the Skipper.

So, as a man of science, he'd continue his researches on not only the flora and fauna of the island, but in finding alternative methods of rescue. Unfortunately, as far as the scientific method and this island were concerned, the two seemed diametrically opposed.

His studies had allowed him a better understanding of why the island was an enigma: something that had kept even the natives on neighbouring islands from venturing too often upon its shores. Through an optical illusion caused by thermal inversion layers and ocean-swept currents, the island was from time-to-time camouflaged, like an inverse mirage. While there was no way to counteract this natural occurrence, his studies had deepened his understanding of how often and why the situation happened.

Thankfully, he hadn't needed to rely solely on his homemade lab equipment, but had managed to cobble together pieces from some of NASA and the US Air Force's misfires that had accidentally landed or washed ashore over the years. His greatest obstacle was the rapidly changing technology that was now being utilized; he was five years behind the times, and had to teach himself by trial and error exactly what use he could make from some of the devices.

One of the most obvious questions he'd been asked was why with all his scientific knowledge had they never built a boat? It was not exactly rocket science; even the natives they encountered from some of the surrounding islands arrived via crude outrigger canoes. They could build similar boats, but the island they were on was isolated, far from the shipping lanes. To build even a basic canoe would mean it would need to re-supply itself on the neighbouring islands, and there was no way to know which islands held friendly natives and which held cannibalistic, head-hunting savages. Without a transmitter, there was no telling if he'd be sending the Skipper and his first mate, Gilligan, for help or to their death. As seven stranded on dry land, they would have a better chance of survival than two running aground on the wrong island. If help were to be found, it would need to be by some other method.

From what they learned of the outside world from their radio—their only link to civilisation—he believed rescue was an inevitability. He doubted that it would be by any grand and glorious idea of his, or the unanticipated arrival of some errant stranger who was just as likely to leave them stranded as provide help. No, it would be something outside of their control. Whether by the US military using the island as a satellite tracking station to monitor Soviet satellites; anthropologists and archaeologists wanting to make the cover of _National Geographic_ with their discovery of a naturally formed _Brigadoon;_ or even religious evangelicals hoping to provide "salvation" to primitive cultures; it would only be a matter of time before the world encroached on their idyll. The question remained when?

Hence the Professor's constant work in attempting to rebuild the transmitter using, as he often put it, "coconut shells and bamboo rods."

The other castaways were spending a leisurely afternoon in their huts; the heat from the afternoon sun and the unusually high humidity slackened the pace of their daily chores. From the breeze blowing through his open window, the wind had picked up considerably, and judging by the growing shadows within his own hut, the azure sky's cottony clouds were darkening. While they'd grown used to these types of storms seemingly appearing from nowhere; it didn't pay to take chances. Examining his homemade barometer for changes in the weather, nothing seemed unusual.

 _Just a small summer storm passing across the island,_ he thought, returning once again to his work.

So intent on soldering two wires and a transistor to a circuit board that had never been intended by NASA to be used in such a way, he hadn't noticed the spreading greenish-grey darkness now hovering above their side of the island.

There was a faint knock at his door. the unexpectedness made him drop the transistor he'd been fiddling with into a pile of other pieces of NASA equipment he kept neatly arranged in a weaved box.

"Professor?" called the voice softly. Experience had taught the castaways not to disturb the Professor when he was working on his experiments.

He was glad for the interruption, even if it did mean re-soldering the transistor. "Come in, Mary Ann."

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she apologised.

"No, I should be the one to apologise. When I get involved in my work, it takes precedence over everything."

She returned his smile, knowing that when his concentration was fixated on something, he'd have to be dragged away to even eat. "Have you noticed the sky?" she asked. "If this were Kansas, they'd be broadcasting tornado alerts about now."

"Tornadoes?" He re-examined the barometer. The pressure seemed to be within normal range. "It's just another small squall passing across the island."

She jumped suddenly as a peal of thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. "It sounds like it's heading this way."

Hugging her, he tried to soothe her nerves; the former farm girl was one of the most level-headed of their troupe. "Everything points to a small storm; even the radio isn't reporting any out of the ordinary weather system."

The same thought passed through both their minds: the radio didn't have any reports on the typhoon that had marooned them five years earlier, either.

This time the thunder sounded closer.

"It does sound like the ocean currents may have shifted the direction of the storm." He realized he was holding her tightly, and released her. Mary Ann sighed to herself: though a man of science, he wasn't a man of the world.

Feeling he must make amends, he continued, "While I doubt it's anything to cause concern, perhaps it's best if we all begin to prepare as if it were."

Another rumble of thunder seemed to agree with his assessment, and he and Mary Ann left his hut to warn their fellow castaways to "batten down the hatches"—just in case.

With the next rumble of thunder, they didn't need to knock on their friends' doors to get their attention. The others had already gone outside to ask their resident scientific expert about the nature of this storm.

"Professor," began the Skipper, "that sounds like a real doozy heading our way."

"I agree with the Captain," added Mr. Howell. "Are we to worry about another unexpected typhoon." The millionaire's eyes scanned the greenish-grey sky.

The Professor raised his arms to placate the others. "I've already checked both the radio and my barometer. This is just one of those quick storms that often pass over the island." Even though, he, too, was a bit unnerved by the colour of the sky. He kept his voice level, continuing. "What we're seeing is a rather dense formation of cumulus congestus clouds."

"You mean clouds get congestion, too?" asked Gilligan.

"Oh for the love of Pete," growled the Skipper.

The scientist just shook his head before answering; the first mate could be exasperating at times. Rather than go into a detailed explanation, in this case the Professor thought defeat might be the better part of valour. "Gilligan, "he fumbled for the simplest explanation he could devise, "think of the cumulus cloud as your nose…and what do you do when your nose is congested?"

Gilligan answered readily, "Blow it?"

"Well, in a way, this is exactly what these clouds are doing. They've been filled with water vapour, and the only way to release that—uh—congestion, as it were, is for them to rain."

While not quite accurate, the answer seemed to calm Gilligan and the others, as well. "Now, what I suggest we do is to check that our supplies are secure, and that we have enough food and fresh water to sustain us through this storm." He added a hasty, "Don't you agree, Skipper?" in order to appease the ego of the man who felt directly responsible for the lives of the castaways.

*.*.*.*.*

With the supplies checked and secured, the Professor returned to his own hut to continue work on the circuit board for the new transmitter he'd been trying to build.

While the storm's intensity didn't seem unusual—they'd been through worse—the darkness was a bit disconcerting for this hour of the afternoon, and he needed to light a candle to be able to continue his work.

The transistor he'd soldered onto the circuit board seemed to handle the low voltage passing through it.

 _This time,_ he thought, _it just might work._

Using his pedal-driven turbine, he slowly increased the current to the board. From the readings on his monitoring devices, everything appeared to be within acceptable levels. There was actually a slight hum being generated through the low-band frequency of their AM radio.

Stopping his pedalling, he moved the AM radio to the other side of his hut and farther from the circuit board to determine if the power he was generating was a constant and a signal could be transmitted, or if the amount of power output needed as well as distance would be factors in delivering a continuous signal.

Getting back in the saddle of the turbine, he began pumping slowly, allowing the current once again to build gradually to tolerable levels. This time, however, there was no hum from the radio.

The Professor quickened his pumping to increase the voltage running through the circuit board while trying to monitor the readings and listen for any sound that might be generated. So, intent had he been on doing three things simultaneously, he didn't notice that a strong gust of wind coming through his window had blown out the candle, as the storm surged overhead. About to accept this set-back—that there was just no way for one pedal-powered turbine to generate enough power to transmit a signal over the distance that would be required to reach the shipping lanes—the radio crackled with an ear-piercing sound of static. An arc of electricity danced between the circuit board and the radio, as lightning seemed to split the world around him, momentarily blinding him. The concussion threw him from the bicycle-like device, but in the few brief seconds before losing consciousness, he muttered, "Ball lightning…thought it was only a theory."


	3. Up in Smoke

* * *

**To the other castaways in their huts,** the electrical static that emanated from the Professor's hut was almost drowned by the deafening crack of thunder that rumbled overhead.

In their hut, the Skipper and Gilligan had been passing the time for the storm to end by playing a game of checkers.

"Skipper, do you smell that?" the first mate crinkled his nose at the odour of sulphur that was blown through their window.

With his back to the window, the old salt didn't get the direct breeze that Gilligan got. "Huh?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know, but it smells like someone just set off a stink bomb."

The Skipper inhaled deeply, as the scent was already beginning to dissipate. "You're right, little buddy. For a second there it smelled like raw sewage." He then noticed the low moan of an eerie electronic wail. "The Professor's using the radio isn't he?"

"Yeah, he said he needed it for a new experiment—"

The sound still hadn't changed in tone or timbre. "Something's wrong!" interrupted the Skipper, as he jumped from his chair and headed out the door, closely followed by Gilligan.

*.*.*.*.*

There was a very faint wisp of yellow smoke emanating from the Professor's hut, barely visible through the mist that was presently falling. As the Skipper and Gilligan made their way toward the hut, the big man bellowed for help from the other castaways. "Mr. Howell, I think the Professor's been hurt!" his voice loud enough to be heard over the still heavy winds and that strange electronic hum.

After five years together on the island, there was no hesitation in the speed in which the millionaire and the three women came from their huts to help their friends. Except for that electronic squeal and the gusts of wind, the thunder was now merely a low rumble in the distance, as the storm moved back out to sea.

The Skipper slowly opened the door to the Professor's hut; the place was a shambles.

"It looks like a tornado's been here," said Gilligan peering over the big man's shoulders. The Professor's laboratory equipment was strewn throughout the room; his neatly arranged shelves of gourds for storing herbs and other medicinal remedies looked like it had been lifted and hurled across the hut. Both were also taken aback by the strong smell of sulphur still lingering in the air.

Mary Ann and Ginger had to be restrained by Mr. Howell from pushing their way through, as they each called to the Professor.

"I'm certain he's right as rain, ladies," said the millionaire, even as he squeezed his wife's hand in silent hope that he was telling them the truth.

Peering through the smog and among the debris, the Skipper finally spotted the familiar khaki of the Professor's trousers, hidden under a bookshelf that had also turned over in whatever had happened in there. Stepping carefully across the debris, he made his way toward the Professor, hoping he'd just find the man unconscious with no further injuries.

As he made his way across the hut, the electrical noise seemed to grow in intensity. "Gilligan, will you find that radio and turn it off. Please," he commanded.

Above the sound, he heard a moan, at least that was one worry off his mind. "Don't worry, Professor, I'll have you free in a jiffy."

"Sk-Skipper?" a weak voice responded back to him.

The sailor wasted no time in getting the bamboo bookshelf off of him.

"I-I'm all right. Just a bit bruised and sore."

"Let me be the judge of that, Professor." He slid the books that were still on top of him out of the way, and began checking for any cuts or breaks. "He's all right," shouted the overjoyed Skipper. "Just had the wind knocked out of him is all."

The three women outside the hut all hugged Mr. Howell.

"He's all right," said Ginger.

"Oh, thank goodness," Mary Ann added.

"Gilligan, haven't you found that radio, yet?" The ear-splitting noise was beginning to grate on his nerves, and it probably wasn't helping the Professor any.

"I'm trying to Skipper, but it sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once." He looked over the hut again, until he noticed the radio's antenna poking up from behind the storage locker that had also been thrown to the floor. When Gilligan grabbed the antenna, he yelped, dropping the radio like it was a rattlesnake, and backing up against the hut wall.

"What's the matter?" asked the Skipper.

"Th-there still might be an excessive electrical discharge coming from the radio," explained the Professor. He was trying to keep his eyes open, and the Skipper was afraid to let him slip into unconsciousness again.

"Is that what happened, little buddy, an electric shock?"

Gilligan shook his head; his face had gone nearly as white as his cap. "Skipper, the Professor's over there with you, right?"

"Of course he is, Gilligan."

"Then his twin brother is over here with me."


	4. And Then There Were Two

* * *

" **Are you out of your mind, Gilligan?"** The Skipper couldn't disguise his anger, but he kept his voice low to keep from upsetting the Professor.

"Skipper, believe me, I wish I was. But there's another Professor over here, too" He pointed at the spot on the other side of the storage locker.

Getting over his fright, Gilligan finally turned off the radio. Everyone—both inside and outside the hut—breathed a sigh of relief that that frightful noise was gone.

He knelt beside the other Professor, at least his chest was rising and falling; so, it meant whoever (or, he thought nervously, _whatever_ he was) was alive. "Hey, mister." He gently slapped his face. "Mister, are you okay?"

"Gi-Gilligan?" The voice was definitely the Professor's, and even though it was barely above a whisper, the Skipper heard it, and recognized it, too.

The Skipper looked at his first mate, and mouthed in utter disbelief, "Two Professors? But how?"

Gilligan shrugged his shoulders at the Skipper, and asked of the man lying on the floor, "You know me?"

"Of c-course." He was trying to keep his eyes fixed on the young man, whose face at the moment had taken on the appearance of something painted by Salvador Dali. "You're Gilligan, the first mate on the _S.S. Minnow._ "

Realizing that the two of them were not going to be enough to handle two men with likely concussions—let alone two Professors—the Skipper asked his Professor would he be all right long enough for him to get help from the others.

The Professor nodded.

"Now, I want you to promise me that you won't fall asleep while I'm gone."

His friend forced a smile. "Don't-don't worry. I want to make it home, just as much as you do."

*.*.*.*.*

Stepping out of the hut, the Skipper held up his hands to assure the others that everything was all right. "I think," he was about to say _they,_ but thought better of it, "the Professor has a mild concussion. But me and Gilligan are going to need some help getting him out of there."

"Of course, Captain, of course." Mr. Howell answered, and the women nodded. They'd do whatever was in their power to help their friend.

"Now things may appear a bit unusual in there. I don't want you to worry about it. We'll figure things out once the Professor recovers."

"What do you mean?" asked Ginger, a worried look crossing her rain-smudged face.

Mary Ann squeezed her friend's arm, not wanting to think what the Skipper might be trying to prepare them for.

"We'll do whatever we can for the poor man," said Mrs. Howell.

"Just follow my lead, and whatever you do, don't let what you see in there upset you."

The five of them silently entered the hut; their feet crunching on the remains of the Professor's equipment. Their eyes alighted on Gilligan first, and they rushed over to him, not having noticed the other Professor.

The Skipper pulled Mr. Howell aside, and brought him to the first Professor he'd found.

The millionaire couldn't help but let out a surprised gasp, "Ye gads, there are two of them!"

The others turned in the older man's direction, and saw the other body; Mrs. Howell grabbed onto the other women's arms to keep from fainting, while both Mary Ann and Ginger gasped in shock.

"But how?" Mary Ann barely managed to get the words out.

"I think all that can wait until we can get them both well enough to answer some questions," said the Skipper. Looking at the Howells, he asked, "Can we use your hut?" It was the only one large enough not only to accommodate the two Professors, but for the others to monitor that they didn't fall asleep.

Mr. Howell was at first going to protest about the sanctity of the American home, but one look in Lovey's direction changed his mind. "Certainly, Captain." And besides, no one would be sleeping this night.

*.*.*.*.*

Having extricated both men from the rubble of the hut, the Skipper laid each one gently upon Mr. and Mrs. Howell's twin beds. With both men just trying to remain conscious, neither had yet become aware of the other's existence, and for the moment, the Skipper wanted to keep it that way. Taking a page from Frank Capra's _It Happened One Night,_ he strung a rope between the two beds and across the Howell's hut, laying blankets across it to make sure neither would learn about the other. Even though he knew the Professor was a man of logic, who believed in science and not superstition, he was worried that in their condition the shock might be too much for either man—or worse both men.

Mary Ann volunteered to stay with the Professor lying on Mr. Howell's bed, while Ginger stayed with the second one. Both tried to keep their Professor's attention by talking about their lives before the shipwreck, asking their patient questions about their time on the island, and just any type of pleasantry they could think of to keep them awake.

The Skipper brewed pots of strong coffee for the long night ahead. If they could just get the Professor—Professors—through the night. then maybe they could get some answers. Beyond attempting to build parts for a new transmitter, he didn't know what the Professor had been working on, but he doubted that whatever it was, creating a duplicate of himself was definitely not supposed to have happened.

*.*.*.*.*

As the sun crept over the horizon, creating a dazzling spectacle of golden radiance across a sky that was turning from pitch black to dazzling red to a brilliant blue, it was clear that whatever yesterday's storm had been, it had long since moved out to sea. Except for the early morning damp that still clung to the foliage and the wreckage to the Professor's hut, the storm had done little damage. That is, thought a groggy Skipper, until they had discovered two Professors. His head was still reeling over that revelation. There was no way, he thought, that logic could explain it, and that sulphurous smell had him convinced that whoever the second Professor might have been was the work of black magic.

Maybe the Professor had finally translated some of those ancient writings from the original natives who inhabited the island, and had released something dark and malevolent that was only appearing to mimic his form. And no doubt, both Professors would do their darnedest to convince him that science, not native superstition, had played a hand in this conundrum. But as tired as he felt, he went over to his sea chest to collect some of the charms and trinkets he had accumulated throughout the years to ward off any evil spirits that might come his way. _No sense in taking any chances._

*.*.*.*.*

The Skipper quietly knocked on the Howells' hut's door.

Ginger whispered for him to enter.

This was the first time he'd ever seen her without her makeup and her hair perfectly coiffed; her face looked tired and haggard from sitting all-night watch beside the Professor's bedside.

"How's he doing?" he whispered.

The starlet was about to reply, but even though his eyes were now shut peacefully, the Professor answered, "I seem to be doing much better thanks to the attentiveness of my nurse." His voice still sounded weak, though.

"You don't know how good it is to see you're doin' okay, Professor," he kept his voice as low as possible.

"I understand we have another patient?" he asked.

The Skipper looked at Ginger, worried that in talking to the Professor all night that she might have let something slip.

Guessing what the sailor was thinking, Ginger shook her head, and put her finger to her lips to signal that she'd not said anything about who the other patient was.

"I don't think it was anything more serious than a slight concussion," said the Skipper, "I'm going to check on him now."

Assuming he knew who the other patient was, the Professor replied, "Tell Gilligan, I hope he's all right."

The Skipper hoped that their other patient hadn't heard his own voice, even muffled, coming through the wall of blankets he fashioned, as he went to see how Mary Ann and her Professor were doing.

She saw the blankets moving, and whispered, "Come in, Skipper."

Before he could ask his questions, the petite brunette already had her answers ready. "The Professor's doing much better this morning."

"Has he said anything?"

She bit her lip, "Well, yes and no."

Her Professor seemed to have finally fallen into a restful, if fitful slumber. She gently removed her hand from his, and pulled the Skipper aside. "I'm worried about him, Skipper."

"What do you mean?"

"We were talking—I was doing most of it anyway—and he asked me how he'd," she hesitated, "to use his exact words, 'how he'd gotten back on this godforsaken island'."

"That certainly doesn't sound like the Professor."

"That's not all. I tried to discuss his teaching in Cleveland and being a scout master, and he told me he's never been to Cleveland in his life."

"Well, at least we know who the real Professor is," the Skipper thought, as he willed himself to see his friend through the other side of the blanketed wall.

"And he thinks we were rescued over two years ago." Mary Ann was on the verge of tears, as she explained some of the strange things the Professor had confided in her, during their time together that night.

"He kept questioning if this was an elaborate NSA ruse to verify his loyalty."

The Skipper just shook his head, unable to provide any comfort to Mary Ann. "Do you think I can wake him?"

"You already have," said a hoarse voice from the bed. "I see Miss Summers has been filling you in on the details of our chat."

"You've got some explaining to do as well, _Professor_." He stressed that last word, sincerely doubting the identity of the man in front of him, even if he could pass for their Professor's double.

"Professor?" The man scoffed. "It's _Doctor_ Hinkley, as you should be well aware, having spent three years marooned together on this island."

"Then where did you go to school, Dr. Hinkley?" The Skipper was in no mood to be baited.

"I hold a B.A. from USC, a B.S. from UCLA, an M.A. from Harvard, and a Ph.D. from MIT. Didn't the NSA brief you before beginning this charade, or did you just happen to forget?" There was the slightest tinge of contempt in his voice.

The Skipper and Mary Ann both looked at each other, only two of the schools that he mentioned attending did their Professor attend as well: and Harvard and MIT weren't among them.

"Pro—uh—Doctor," began Mary Ann. "You keep talking about the NSA, and loyalty tests. Why would you think any of us would question your loyalty? We've been friends for years."

"Oh, they did an excellent job in picking you as my nurse, Miss Summers. Your inherent naivety makes you by far a better actress than Miss Grant." It was a barely disguised insult.

Any concern Mary Ann formerly held for this version of the Professor (or as he preferred to be called _Doctor_ ) had disappeared.

Now, the Skipper was confused. A doppelgänger would have made his story consistent to try to trick them into believing he was their Professor. This man, whoever he was, definitely wasn't the Professor: except in appearance, the two were nothing alike.

"So, you're a scientist. Then explain to me exactly how we got off this island two years ago?" If there was an answer, they might as well take advantage of it.

"You certainly remember Eva Grubb," he asked.

"Who could forget what that she-devil tried to do to poor Ginger?" Mary Ann's face flushed in anger.

He looked at Mary Ann, then back at the Skipper, "Should we really be discussing this in front of a young lady?"

Mary Ann took the unsubtle hint, and went to the other part of the hut, where the real Professor was.

"Apparently, I was Eva's first _paramour,_ and with my promise not to reveal her true identity, she was only too happy to return me with her to Honolulu."

The Skipper couldn't believe what he had just heard. Their Professor was extremely shy and reticent around women, and would certainly not have used sex on even someone like Eva to return to the mainland.

"Of course, once we reached Honolulu and I spoke with both the Coast Guard and other authorities, Miss Grubb never did see a Hollywood career, and was almost incarcerated for fraud. And within two weeks, the search for the remaining _Minnow_ survivors was over. There was quite a welcome for us in Honolulu."

*.*.*.*.*

It was a relief when Mary Ann saw the real Professor lying on Mrs. Howell's bed.

"Professor, how are you feeling?" she asked, wanting to regain some sanity from the person she had spent all night tending to.

"A little fatigued," he replied.

It was nice to hear that calmness in his voice. Nothing ever seemed to upset the Professor; he took everything that happened in stride. Every setback was something to be learned from. He was the rock that the other castaways relied upon; his resolve and determination, keeping them believing they'd eventually be rescued.

"How's Gilligan?" he asked, assuming that the patient in the other bed was the hapless first mate.

Mary Ann bit her lip, and replied, "As well as can be expected."

He noted it was a non-answer. "I hope nothing from my experiment hurt him," he said.

"Oh no, nothing like that," she quickly responded. "Professor, what exactly were you experimenting with?"

He sat up, excited that she had taken interest in his latest research, and then had to lie back down when dizziness overcame him. "I'm sorry, Mary Ann," he said tiredly. "Not quite as healthy as my nurse seemed to think." He smiled at Ginger, but continued on. "I was attempting to create a low frequency AM band carrier wave that we might be able to send a Morse signal through. At the same time I was doing that, ball lightning struck my hut."

"Oh my gosh," said Mary Ann.

"You were lucky you weren't electrocuted," added Ginger.

"Thankfully, ball lightning doesn't have the same effects as regular lightning, at least theoretically."

*.*.*.*.*

There was no time like the present, thought the Skipper, and the sooner both Professors—or the Professor and this Doctor—met then the sooner they might be able to help themselves escape from the island.

"If you'll excuse me, Doctor," said the Skipper. "I'm going to check on our other patient, and he wound his way through the rows of blankets.

"Professor," he asked, "are you feeling up to talking with your companion."

"Skipper, do you think that's a good idea?" asked Mary Ann. She'd not had the opportunity to prepare Ginger for what this other "Professor" was like.

"I think the longer we put this off, the worse things are gonna be."

"Skipper, is there something wrong with Gilligan? If something I did hurt that boy, I'd never forgive myself," he said.

"No, Professor, Gilligan's fine. We've been waiting 'til you were strong enough to meet your roommate." He pulled the blankets from the rope.

"Uh, Professor Hinkley meet Doctor Hinkley."


	5. In a Mirror Darkly

* * *

**For both men, it was like looking in a mirror.**

"This is impossible," said the Professor.

"If you take into account Pauli's Exclusion principle, it is possible. Besides, according to the Skipper there are some differences in our lives: since you and the others are still on this godforsaken island, and the castaways I was stranded with were rescued two years ago."

"But how?" he asked.

"As there are ladies present, let's just say that Eva Grubb and I reached an understanding."

The Professor's eyes went wide at that revelation, and exactly what its meaning inferred. He blushed slightly.

"I take it you're called 'Professor' by your fellow castaways, and teach high school in…" He paused, briefly, letting the condescension ooze from his voice, "Akron?"

"My friends call me the Professor, yes. As far as teaching, I worked in Cleveland."

Mary Ann and Ginger held each other's hands, afraid that either one of them might do bodily harm to the ersatz Professor lying in Mr. Howell's bed.

The Skipper just looked on, perplexed at how this could even be happening.

"And might I ask, Professor—"

"That's _Doctor_ Hinkley," snapped the man in the other bed.

"That should at least make it easier for our friends to differentiate you from me," said the Professor,

 _It definitely won't take that much to tell the two of you apart, Professor,_ both women thought.

"What is your field of study that you would disparage a career in teaching the next generation of scientists."

"My company presently has contracts with NASA, not to mention our work with Los Alamos and Lawrence Livermore."

The Professor's face twisted in horror at the mention of the last two names. "How in God's name, man, could you or your company be doing work there!"

"I'd say my work on," he gave the Skipper a distasteful look, " _Fat Man_ and _Little Boy_ helped immensely."

At first the Skipper thought this Dr. Hinkley had made a disparaging reference to himself and Gilligan. But then he recalled his Navy days, and recognized the euphemisms. _No wonder the Professor's upset,_ he thought.

The Professor's face was ashen, and both Mary Ann and Ginger, with help from the Skipper, had to restrain him in Mrs. Howell's bed. The three of them were surprised, considering the concussion he'd just recovered from, at how fiercely he fought against them.

"Ah, I see we have more in common than I thought," said Dr. Hinkley.

The Professor finally relented, allowing the others to loosen their grip on him, and seemingly changed the subject: "I suppose our first problem is returning you from whence you came."

"I think our first problem is learning what experiment went wrong on my side of the space-time continuum. It's not like you'd be able to build a nuclear reactor from a bunch of coconut shells," he snorted.

"Since you're the one presently marooned on our side of a parallel universe, the solution to your predicament may be on this end."

This made Dr. Hinkley smirk. "What were you teaching those children in Cleveland, anyway?"

The Professor slowly rose from Mrs. Howell's bed; it was taking all his reserves to stand, never mind wanting to wipe that smug, self-satisfied smile from his doppelgänger's face. "You no doubt have heard of ball lightning."

"The theory, yes. Its existence remains a scientific controversy."

"Somehow, I believe it, and my work on low frequency AM bandwidth signals, somehow opened a gateway between our dimensions."

Now it was Hinkley's turn to look perplexed. "There's no way on this island for you to have generated that sort of power—especially within low-band AM frequency."

"Yet, here you are," smiled the Professor triumphantly. "Even with ball lightning involved, it might depend on what you were working on or near to within your own laboratory."

"Which brings us right back to the possibility that I discussed earlier with Miss Summers, that this is an NSA tactic to judge exactly where my loyalties lie, and how much you might be able to worm from me."

The Professor took note of his double's ego, "Loyalties can be bought…for the right price."

"Hardly in today's economy," noted Hinkley, letting slip something else about his universe that was different from their own. "Those two millionaires who were on the island with us, while not paupers, lost quite a tidy sum in the economic crash of '68."

The Professor, Mary Ann, Ginger, and the Skipper looked at each other, wondering what other differences their world and Hinkley's held. Their radio had never reported an economic downturn, and except for that news report that mistakenly listed Powell Industries for Howell Industries, the Howell's were still as wealthy as ever.

"With that kind of financial devastation, why would the US be wasting money to send a man to the moon?" asked the Professor, knowing from the most recent radio reports that the moon launch was scheduled for only a few weeks away.

"Moon?" asked Hinkley, finally not as smug as he had been. "The US abandoned the _Apollo_ project after the _Apollo_ 1 disaster. The Soviets abandoned the _Soyuz_ missions after Gagarin and Seryogin were killed in a test flight the following year. Good thing, too, considering the world-wide economic upheaval that happened two months later."

It was like hearing a news report with everything out of sync, thought the three spectators. The two men might be the exact duplicates of each other, but they definitely were men with very different backgrounds, and from very different worlds.

Considering Hinkley's paranoia about the NSA, the Professor wondered if there was even a United States of America, as they knew it, on his world. "What makes you think that the NSA would be concerned about your loyalty? And for what reasons, since as you've said your company does work for the Federal government."

"Three years out of circulation can get the Feds very worried about what one has been up to, especially when your company has been working for them for almost a decade."

Another clue, thought the Professor. Without giving anything away, this Dr. Hinkley had revealed to him far more than he suspected. "You're working on the neutron bomb, and its potential deployment, aren't you?"

This time Hinkley was caught off guard by the Professor's blunt statement. But there was no denying the answer in his eyes.

The Skipper was the first to grasp the Professor's meaning. "You mean _the bomb,_ Professor."

Mary Ann and Ginger were aghast. There was no way that their Professor could do something so horrific, but they didn't trust his double.

"I think," said the Professor with a shudder, "they intend to deploy a neutron bomb in that world."

Hinkley sputtered, "How could you even think we'd be mad enough to start a nuclear war?"

"A world-wide economic collapse, both the United States and the Soviets stopping work on the space race, and your work at Los Alamos and Lawrence Livermore…I know you far better than you think I do."

"We were never close to being the same person," said Hinkley, his voice rising and his eyes glazing with a hint of fanaticism that the Skipper, Ginger and Mary Ann had never expected to encounter from someone who so closely resembled their friend. "I'm certain a schoolteacher from Cleveland never had the guts to dream and design the things I've created in my universe."

"You know nothing about me, Doctor." The Professor shook his head, whispering, "It would have been so easy for me to become you."


	6. There But for the Grace of God

* * *

**Fortunately for the castaways, the ersatz Professor had been easy to subdue;** they had temporarily bound him to Mr. Howell's bed. But knowing the man had their Professor's intellect—and then some—trying to find a solution to constrain him, until they could hopefully return him to his own universe—what little there might be left of it, if the Professor's theory was correct.

They were all seated around the community table discussing their options.

"He's as mad as a March hare," said Mrs. Howell.

"A highly intelligent and very dangerous March hare, Lovey," added her husband, patting her hand affectionately.

"He's not insane, Mr. Howell, of that I'm certain."

The others were stunned by the Professor's revelation. "Egocentric, self-serving, even fanatical, but definitely not insane."

"He thinks blowing up the world is a good thing, Professor," said Gilligan, "How isn't that crazy?"

The Professor didn't know how to answer the first mate, but there was no easy way to explain the psychological changes that affect the men who hold that kind of raw power within their hands. Insanity was too simple an explanation. For those men who worked on the potential annihilation of the world—even those within their own universe—it went further than even a God complex. They'd often speak of their work as their creation; their projects lovingly cared for as if they were their own children. Perhaps it was the only way they could retain their sanity when constantly dealing with the power of life and death over an entire planet. Compartmentalization: the device being something completely separate from its use. After all, they would not be the ones to give the order for launch: that came from elsewhere.

"The neutron bomb was designed as a field weapon, not for use on civilian targets. Its radioactive output would be limited to a battlefield," said the Professor as rationally as he could, but if anyone were looking at his hands, they'd have seen how hard his fingers were digging into his palms in order to maintain his own composure.

"In the Navy, we saw pictures from Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Things that were never released to the public. You don't want to see such horrors happen anywhere ever again," said the Skipper.

Thurston Howell III spoke up, "We may not have known then what we know now. But anyone considering using any nuclear weapon from the President to the Premier would have to be without conscience. A mad man."

This was at least a question that the Professor felt he could answer, "My duplicate may be working on a neutron device, but I doubt he'd want to return to his own world that easily if an attack were imminent. I think he'd be grateful to be here; I know I would be."

"Professor," said Mary Ann, "you're a completely different person from him. I spent enough time with him last night to know that you never could be anything like him."

Ginger added, "Just hearing him berate you…and the other castaways he was stranded with makes my flesh crawl." She hugged herself for emphasis.

"We could keep him sedated." The Skipper was reaching for straws.

The Professor shook his head. "To keep him sedated for that long might also kill him."

_That wouldn't be such a big loss,_ thought Ginger, but was polite enough not to say it aloud, and from the expression on her roommate's face, Mary Ann was thinking the same thing.

"What about keeping him in one of the caves, with a guard?" asked Gilligan. "There's no exit from some of those caves, and we could make bars with bamboo rods."

"Gilligan, it would be an excellent idea, but the problem is that I need his help if I'm going to re-create the experiment that brought him to our universe.

"Don't tell me you're going to attempt to make a neutron bomb from palm fronds and coconut shells?" asked the Skipper, worried that such a scenario might actually be possible.

"Of course not, Skipper." He wasn't certain whether to take the big man's concern as an insult or a compliment. "Nor can I re-create the effects of that ball lightning blast. But it may not have been either of those things that brought him to this island. Sound waves have been known to cause unusual effects on matter, like an opera singer being able to shatter a glass with just her voice. Suppose that low AM frequency wave caused an opening in an interdimensional gateway,"

Mr Howell shivered, remembering the electronic wail, "And your twin somehow walked through it?"

The Professor shuddered at the word _twin._ "There but for the Grace of God go I, Mr. Howell."

Ginger rose to his defence, "There's no way you could possibly be _him,_ Professor."

Mary Ann nodded her agreement.

While he was certainly gladdened by the support he was receiving from his friends, none knew how close he had almost come to being that someone else. He wanted to unburden his soul to them, but considering how they felt about the existence of a neutron bomb that his doppelgänger was responsible for, what could he say in his defence concerning his involvement with the Manhattan Project.

*.*.*.*.*

The four men were in the Howell's hut; three were standing watch, while the Professor was undoing the ropes from his double's wrists and ankles.

"It would seem you need my help, as much as I need yours," said Hinkley, "Of course that depends if I want to provide it."

"Are you that fearful of returning to your own universe? The outcome may not be as definitive as you've anticipated," said the Professor, finishing undoing the last of the knots.

Hinkley rubbed his wrists and ankles, feeling circulation return. "It would seem your little society is very supportive of each other. We weren't so lucky on our island; I think we would have eventually turned on ourselves had it not been for Eva's arrival."

"So, you used a high-strung, vulnerable woman to get what you needed."

Hinkley smirked at his mirror image, noticing that the Professor did not return the private joke, "You ought to try it sometime. I'd say that either of your two feminine companions would happily jump should you ask them. Five years is a _long_ time."

The Skipper caught the Professor's arm before he punched Hinkley in the mouth. If it wasn't for their need of his aid, he'd have happily let that fist connect with that jaw. He knew the Professor wasn't used to being baited; in that regard, he was as naive as Gilligan.

"The man has as much couth as a Yale man." Mr. Howell's barb barely concealed his own anger.

"You _do_ need my help. Don't you, _Professor?"_

"The sooner we both concede that returning you to your universe is our primary goal; the more readily I feel we can both work together. We don't have to like each other, just tolerate one another for as long as needed."

Hinkley looked at the other three men; all of whom—including the puny first mate—had no intention of leaving him to his own devices.

"We're not so different, you and I." Hinkley's tone had changed: it was conciliatory.

"In many ways, we probably aren't," replied the Professor.

Gilligan was the first to react to the double's change in attitude. "Don't trust him, Professor!"

The Professor looked at the first mate, who usually judged people by instinct. If you were his friend, it was for life; no strings attached. And he was more than willing to take the young man's advice.

"I don't, Gilligan. Believe me, when I say, I know him better than he knows himself."

"Only to a point, Professor." This time there was no derision in his address to the Professor. "Only to a very infinitesimal point. Then you took one path, and I another."

"You could have done so much more with the talent you were given than develop ways to destroy your world."

Hinkley took the bone that the Professor had thrown him, and ran with it. "And so could you. Instead of letting that tremendous intellect go to waste in a Cleveland public school."

The Professor closed his eyes momentarily, thinking to himself of all that he might have accomplished. His work here on the island was some of the most rewarding he'd spent in his life. He didn't mind teaching, but in all honesty, he wasn't a very good one. Oh, his students learned well and passed their exams, but he knew that he wasn't one of the most popular teachers any of them would ever have. And while he was highly regarded as a Scout Master, most of that regard came from the scouts' parents, and not necessarily their children. What was the slang that the younger generation used? He failed to relate to them, too often talking over their heads without even being aware of it. It was Gilligan who taught him that lesson; something for which he would always be grateful.

"You know why I couldn't," he whispered to Hinkley, not certain if the other men heard him.

"I know why you think you couldn't. But you were wrong. There were as many avenues open to you, as there were to me."

Finally realizing that he was being caught like a fish on a line, the Professor asked the question that Hinkley had been waiting to hear: "What do you want from me?"

Hinkley smiled; it soured the Professor's stomach. "Your help in sending me home, and…" he paused theatrically, whispering just loud enough for the Professor to hear, "for you to tell your friends why we're not so different after all."

"And what makes you think I'd tell them after we return you to your place of origin?"

"You're a man of honour, Professor. Or would you prefer that I tell them before my departure?"

The Professor shook his head, knowing he'd been defeated. It wasn't like the truth wouldn't be revealed eventually. As much as he despised his doppelgänger, the man was more like him than he'd care to admit, and as hard as he had tried he couldn't keep running from the truth—not from himself, nor from his friends.


	7. Home is Where the Hut Is

* * *

**This was the first time since the ball lightning had exploded in his hut,** as well as the appearance of his doppelgänger that the Professor had returned to his home. Strange, he thought, never in five years had he considered his hut to be home, but the word had formed unbidden in his thoughts.

"You're one hell of a housekeeper." Hinkley whistled, as he surveyed the damage throughout the place. He sniffed the air, even though the storm passed a day ago, there was still a residual odour of sulphur: no doubt from the thin layer of a powdery yellow residue that had fallen on the wreckage.

"I believe you're aware how meticulous our parents were in that we maintain a spotless room."

The Professor rolled his eyes at the sarcasm. "You don't have to remind me of something of which we're both aware,"

Hinkley's tone was matter of fact, as he replied, "I take it that's where our divergence happened? You chose to do—"

"And you chose what you wanted," the Professor snapped. "The only thing I'd like to know is _why,_ when there were so many other options open to you?"

"Were there?" His voice was somber. "There's not too many occupations open for fifteen-year-old Ph.D.'s."

"No, they're not," thought the Professor in sad agreement.

"But I did pretty well for myself. I was mentored by some of the giants in the field of nuclear research, and was directing my own research company by the time I was twenty-two. So, I can't complain."

For the briefest moment, Professor Roy Hinkley felt jealous of his double. His doppelgänger had seemingly taken the easier road, and had benefited quite well from it. What were his own accomplishments in comparison: a book that was already outdated just from the flora he'd discovered on this island; teaching in of all places…Cleveland; being a scout troop leader—all paled in comparison to his alter's own successes. Then he recalled exactly what that choice had entailed, and the moment passed, though not some portion of the envy. There were other questions he wanted to ask of his double, but he suspected he knew the answers already. "Shall we get started?" was the only question he felt that had any primacy.

The nuclear physicist shrugged.

"I'm assuming you built most of the same devices on your island, as I did here?" It would have been nice to have been able to point those out, but the scattered remains of his equipment would surely look like so much _braggadocio._

"If you mean pedal-powered turbines, and methods for re-charging our radio's battery, yes. But," he bent down to pick up a random circuit board that had been tossed from its storage bin, blew the yellow dust from it, and turned it over in his hands. "I never had easy access to technology, especially _Soyuz_ technology."

"Soviet?" asked the Professor, "This washed ashore with some wreckage from a downed US Air Force jet."

"No," said Hinkley, "while it's based on a modified American design, it's definitely Soviet. You can tell by the way the wiring was done." He pointed at a green wire soldered onto a resistor, which connected to a transistor. "Possibly a piece of stolen technology smuggled from the US then back from the USSR?"

The Professor felt like a schoolboy being lectured on the difference between the hydrogen and helium atoms. From here on out, he promised himself to be more accommodating to Gilligan when he made an error in judgement on something the Professor took for granted.

Feeling like he needed to explain himself, "Being stranded for five years hasn't helped much in keeping up with the latest technology. In most instances when dealing with such components, I've had to learn from my mistakes."

"Be thankful nothing washed ashore from _Le Ministère de la Défense_. At least in my universe, the French had a couple of A-Bomb mishaps, two of their tests failed to ignite, and were believed to have sunk to the ocean floor—thankfully in an area too deep from which to be recovered. For all you know, you might be handling one of their detonators." Hinkley enjoyed having an audience—even of one—in which to display his superior knowledge.

It made the Professor think about his own pronouncements and certainties in front of his friends; did he also enjoy touting his intellect before them? The differences between him and his double were easily observed; it was the little things—things which he had never noticed about himself in Cleveland or here on the island—these weighed on his conscience. But then every time he looked at this dark side of himself, things that he believed had long since been buried resurfaced with all the force of an earthquake, shaking the core of his assumptions about himself to their foundation.

Attempting to focus his mind on the problem at hand, he up-righted the bicycle turbine, dusting off the sulphurous powder from its seat.

Hinkley fingered the yellowish powder, as well. "Looks like you may have been correct in your assessment of ball lightning. Those who believe in the theory do say that a sulphurous residue remains after each of its occurrences. Though, I'm not one who subscribes to that theory."

"If it's intangible, it doesn't exist. At least until proved?" asked the Professor.

"Not quite," replied Hinkley, "that would eliminate quite a number of theories within physics, such as the existence of black holes and dark matter. Let's just say that I don't subscribe to the superstitious twaddle that the Skipper supposes inhabits these islands, or the belief in a God that seems to sustain Miss Summers and your compatriots."

The Professor looked at Hinkley, unsurprised that they held the same opinions on spirituality, but abhorred by the way he expressed it. While he still felt the Skipper's superstitions concerning these islands were baseless, he found the way that his other self referred to his friends' religious beliefs was disdainful. Even though he leaned toward agnosticism, he enjoyed the Sunday meetings that Mary Ann had started when it was apparent that rescue would not be imminent. It had led to a number of very intriguing discussions among them all, and he wouldn't have parted with those moments for the world.

"Let's just get this over with," he said. "The sooner you're back in your universe—"

"The sooner you'll have to admit to the others how much alike we really are." Hinkley couldn't keep the smugness from his voice.

"However you wish to play this game, you have the upper-hand in that regard," sighed the Professor.

"Then, by all means, _Professor,_ let's proceed." Hinkley seemed satisfied by his victory over his alternate self. "I only wish I could be present when you tell the others the truth."

_If your world is on the brink of nuclear war, as I suspect it is, you might just wish you were still here,_ thought the Professor.


	8. Trial Run

* * *

**Except for keeping watch that Hinkley didn't try to escape from the Professor's hut,** there was little for the others to do. They sat around the community table like hospital visitors awaiting news on the success of an operation. Everything was removed from their control, and all that was left was to hope for the best.

"Skipper," said Gilligan, "there's got to be something we can do." He placed his chin in his hands, and rested his elbows on the table in frustration.

"The lad's quite right, Captain. Surely we can help the Professor in some way."

"I don't trust that Doctor Hinkley as far as I could throw him," said Ginger, her voice quivering.

While Mary Ann didn't add anything to what her friend said, she nodded her head, thinking just how far she'd like to throw the Professor's double.

"There's nothing we can do to help. None of us know anything about what they intend to do." He shook his head. "And even if we did, we don't have the technical know-how to lend a hand, anyway."

Mrs. Howell was the first to make a viable suggestion: "While it might sound imprudent, perhaps the way we can best help our Professor is to return to some semblance of normalcy. I'm certain he and his _guest_ would be grateful for something to eat and drink."

"By Jove, Lovey, that sounds like a capital idea."

"Yes, Mrs. Howell, we can still keep watch on the hut, but at least we'd be doing _something._ " It was the first time in what felt like days that the Skipper had actually smiled.

*.*.*.*.*

"Now, you said you were trying to use this circuit board to create a low frequency carrier wave signal on the AM band?" Hinkley looked over the board's charred remains, the circuitry wasn't built to handle something with the gigawattage of a lightning bolt, even if it were ball lightning. "You wouldn't happen to have another."

The Professor shook his head. "It's not the only circuit board I have, but it's the only one of that type. Is it possible to adapt another circuit board for the same usage?"

"Depending, of course, what you have available, anything is adaptable. But," he placed the circuit board back on the table, "I suspect that this might have come from that US Air Force plane's radar system, meaning it was already designed to handle some form of carrier wave."

Biting his tongue, the Professor sorted through the mess of his equipment for the weaved box that held various circuit boards he'd collected over the years. The _Mars_ probe that NASA believed had landed on the Red Planet must have had a similar transmission device. He wondered, though, just how reliable that circuit board might be, considering it was ineffectual in computing a 309.2 million kilometre error, even before Gilligan had accidentally broken the probe.

*.*.*.*.*

"Little things. Just keep thinking of little things."

"What did you say, Mary Ann?" asked Ginger of her friend, as she tossed a mixed fruit salad in order to keep busy.

"I'm sorry, Ginger. I was thinking aloud." She, too, was preparing some of the Professor's favourite dishes. "I'm trying to focus on all the little things that the Professor has done to make all our lives easier over the years. I want to remember him, and not that—that monster."

"I know what you mean. It's impossible to think they're the same person."

"Oh Ginger, they're not!" She shuddered. "I was with him all night. You didn't hear the things he said about you, me, the others on their island. I thought he was just delirious from a concussion. And I was too embarrassed to even tell the Skipper what he said to me."

Being from Hollywood and having to escape the advances of many a casting couch lothario, she'd probably seen and heard more than a Kansas farm girl. Ginger recalled her first audition, and the instantaneous success that was offered to her—she just had to be willing to do her part. She walked home barefoot after kicking that phony casting director in his audition part, and running out of that office; she was lucky not to have been blackballed for it.

She put her arms around her friend, giving Mary Ann the chance to cry. "It's okay, honey. Let it out."

*.*.*.*.*

It had taken a while, but the Professor finally found the box, and the circuit boards that had been strewn across his hut. Fortunately, he had found the specific one he needed, if this experiment was to have any chance of success.

He handed it to his double, who looked it over sceptically. "You really expect this to work, don't you?"

"If you have any better suggestions, I'd be willing to listen to you expound on them."

"Touché," replied Hinkley. "Now, what was the arrangement of the components you utilized. Not just in the experiment, but within your," he rolled his eyes, "laboratory."

Shoving his decimated lab equipment to the far side of the hut, he set up the first of the two experiments he'd conducted. "The circuit board was connected to the turbine, but I kept the radio at 30.48 centimetres from the board. If I was actually broadcasting a carrier wave, I wanted to be able to monitor it."

Hinkley tuned the radio to its lowest bandwidth setting at 531 kHz, and placed it the distance the Professor requested.

"Of course, you're also a variable in the success or failure of this experiment," said the Professor. It was the first opportunity he'd had since they started working together for him to get a dig in, and while it wasn't usually in his nature to be rude, it did indeed feel good.

"Since I'm certain your fellow castaways would not want me around them; you'll have to deal with me being here."

"Then go stand in a corner somewhere."

As he had done before, the Professor began pedalling the turbine, slowly at first then increasing his speed. He almost whooped for joy, when he heard a low electronic hum come through the radio's speaker.

Hinkley was unimpressed. "As I said before, there's no way—without some outside mitigating circumstances—for your turbine to generate the power you need."

"I don't have to generate the power." replied the Professor. "I have to generate the frequency that brought you here in the first place."


	9. Cognitive Biases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note :** |  I know my science concerning parallel universes is probably atrocious—but this is Gilligan's Island, after all, and what's a little technobabble between friends. ;-)  
> ---|---  
  
****

* * *

**Whether or not Hinkley approved,** the Professor did not intend to make the immediate transition from his first trial directly to the second stage of his experiment. Working on his own was one thing, he could afford the luxury of trial and error. As much as he wanted to be rid of his doppelgänger, he wouldn't take the risk of putting the man's life in jeopardy should his experiment go awry. Nor did he want to imagine the consequences of possibly bringing another Roy Hinkley from a different parallel dimension into their universe. One was quite enough.

Hinkley sat on a stool in the corner of the hut, looking for all the world to the Professor like a recalcitrant school boy.

"How long do you intend to keep repeating this experiment? You've already given me a migraine from that blasted electronic hum."

The Professor ignored his first question, the answer for any scientist regarding repeating an experiment wasn't until one got the answer one wanted, but until one was satisfied that all the variables had been accounted for. As for the other question: "If the hut wasn't in ruins, I could prepare a compound of salicylic acid; other than that, Mr. Howell's the only one on the island with any analgesics."

"All right!" said Hinkley. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Something inside the Professor snapped. "Haven't you helped enough already? You've treated me with contempt since your arrival. You've insulted my friends—people who, within your own reality, you must have had some emotional feeling toward after being stranded together for three years. And you've blackmailed me into revealing something that I had hoped was long buried. If I didn't have a conscience—as you apparently don't—I'd attempt to return you to your universe without any concern that I was doing it safely."

*.*.*.*.*

Mrs. Howell had come to the kitchen area to offer whatever help she might; not that she enjoyed doing domestic chores (those were better left to her servants), but it at least gave her the opportunity to feel like she was accomplishing something beneficial for _their_ Professor.

Therefore, she was not expecting to see Mary Ann sobbing quietly, while Ginger tried to offer what comfort she could.

"My dear, Mary Ann, whatever has brought this on?" She wanted to offer her sympathy to the young woman who had become like a daughter to her.

"Mrs. Howell, apparently that other Professor made rude advances to Mary Ann while she was tending to him," said Ginger.

"Mary Ann, I know this is easier said than done, but you must be brave. There are terrible men out there, and unfortunately, you had the unpleasant opportunity to encounter one. But you also know that he is not, nor will he ever be, _our_ Professor. While I can't take away the hurt you must be feeling, know that he did nothing to harm you, and we, your friends, will always remain by your side." The three women hugged, though from completely different backgrounds, they had formed a friendship that could survive anything.

*.*.*.*.*

After fifty successful experiments, the Professor felt that the device was ready to be tried with an actual human. He jotted some quick notes on a pad, concerning carrier waves and how to avoid in future what had previously occurred.

"Are you ready to make the leap to your own dimension? he asked.

Hinkley jumped off the stool, practically drooling in his desire to return to his own universe. "Of course I am! I've hated this cursed island since we were first shipwrecked here; never did I believe the universe had such a macabre sense of humour, as to put me back here. Even for just these few hours."

_Let's just hope your world still exists,_ thought the Professor, still convinced from Hinkley's revelations that global war was imminent within that universe.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Gilligan discovered you by the storage locker; so if an interdimensional gateway exists, it should be somewhere within that vicinity."

Hinkley stepped carefully through the debris to stand in the approximate location of where he was first discovered. "Do you want me standing or lying down?"

"What were you doing in your own universe before arriving here?"

"Reviewing some recent analysis we'd been working on," he replied.

This time it was the Professor's turn to roll his eyes. "Were you standing, walking, sitting in the lotus position?" he asked, "It's likely the reason you were prone upon your arrival here was that you were knocked unconscious after crossing the barriers between our universes."

He didn't bother responding to the Professor's comment, and just stood in the relative position he believed he would have been prior to being dragged into a parallel universe.

The Professor placed the radio near his counterpart, where it had originally been in the second stage of his test on carrier wave technology.

Hinkley gritted his teeth, with the radio that close to him what had been just a minor electronic annoyance would soon become a full-blown irritant.

Once again, getting back in the saddle of his pedal-powered turbine, the Professor began pumping, slowly at first, building up a rhythm. As in his first experiment, there was no further sound transmitted through the radio. He stopped pedalling, and made some minor recalibrations to the circuit board. With those made, he began the process again.

"It'll never work," said Hinkley, with a mixture of both triumph at being correct in his assessment of the Professor's attempts at duplicating what had brought him here, and frustration that he might be trapped upon this island once again. These people weren't his friends and never would be. In his own universe, there were no long-lasting bonds of camaraderie formed among those six people with whom he was forced to share three years of his life. For him, at least, it had been a living Hell.

"Will you please be quiet," said the Professor. "You're as aware as I that we're likely to encounter errors before achieving success."

The thought of being trapped in this universe forever, actually frightened him. His counterpart may have been happy with a life of mediocrity, but he never would be. "How do you stand it?"

The Professor looked up from his slide rule. "How do I stand what?"

"Being stranded here, like some primitive. Unable to conduct the kind of work you were meant to do?"

"It was a difficult transition to make at first, for all of us, but we overcame our differences to discover that in many ways we shared much in common." The Professor remembered those first few months here. Their gold fever, while ruining their chance for a rescue, probably did more to inoculate them from maintaining any self-serving interests; they'd become, at least for him, a surrogate family.

"As for my work, while I don't have access to the facilities you no doubt have, it's been rewarding and quite fulfilling. This island once had a history and culture that's been lost for centuries; so far, I've made quite a few discoveries as to the history of these people. Archaeology has always been one of my hobbies, and here I don't have to worry about funding an expedition; meeting results that academia expects, whether or not the theory and the outcome are the same; nor do I have to worry about tenure. Even with my limited equipment, I've had the opportunity to do more in the past five years than I would have had with the most modern technological advances civilisation has to offer." There was a note of triumph in his voice.

"What could you possibly have found in common with the others? An egotistical millionaire and his eccentric wife; a backwater prairie farm girl; a vainglorious starlet; and two of the most inept sailors ever to serve in the Navy."

The Professor shook his head; the people he was describing were strangers to him now. Perhaps immediately following the shipwreck he did feel that way—his intellect often distanced him from others, and made him look down on those who failed to meet his intellectual criteria. But after five years he couldn't think of a time when even after rescue that he wouldn't want the others to be a part of his life. Where Hinkley saw a millionaire and his wife, the Professor saw a man who would give his fortune away to save any one of them, and his wife was a charming woman who did what she could to maintain the castaways' morale. When he looked at Mary Ann and Ginger, he saw two very different, but kind and beautiful women that he'd been too reticent in approaching in a romantic way for fear of losing either's friendship. While the Skipper could often appear gruff and bilious, he was actually quite soft-hearted, and felt a deep personal responsibility for his passengers and crew—no, his friends. And as for Gilligan, despite his inherent clumsiness, he'd never met a more loyal friend, nor one who would so willingly sacrifice his own safety for the lives of the others. There were definitely differences in his and his alternate self's cognitive biases.

He shook his head, feeling terribly sorry for what a lonely, bitter man his other self must be in his reality: "You'd never understand," was the only truthful response he had to offer.


	10. The Light at the End of the World

* * *

**The Professor was exhausted from pedalling the turbine as hard as he could to re-create the frequency;** this had been the tenth trial. He'd been able to generate a very low signal, but it was nowhere close enough to reach the frequency he needed to re-open the interdimensional gateway. However, in this case failure had provided some measure of success: it proved he was on the right track in the possibility of sending a Morse signal via a low-band AM frequency carrier wave. There might actually be a chance that after he returned his double to his own dimension, that their own rescue might be possible.

*.*.*.*.*

"Skipper, I'm worried about the Professor." Gilligan looked in the direction of the scientist's hut; fear was clearly defined in his eyes.

"You're not the only one, little buddy." The Skipper pushed back his sailor's cap in frustration at not being able to do anything.

Mr. Howell nodded his agreement with the others.

"No, I don't mean that Dr. Hinkley would do anything to hurt the Professor. He needs his help too bad. But they're exactly the same person, right?"

"My boy," began Mr. Howell, "they might look the same on the outside, but it's what's inside a man that counts. That man is no more the Professor than Boris Balinkoff is Albert Schweitzer." The threesome shuddered at the comparison, remembering what Balinkoff had done to them.

"But how will that other universe be able to tell the difference? Suppose it opens around the wrong person."

Mr. Howell and the Skipper looked at each other in horror. The subject had never come up in their discussion with the Professor of sending Hinkley back to his own universe, and with the Professor only just recovered from a concussion—albeit a mild one—he might not have even considered that as a possibility.

*.*.*.*.*

"If at first you don't succeed—" began Hinkley.

The Professor cut him off. "If you'd give me a moment to catch my breath," he wiped the sweat from his brow with his already damp shirt sleeve, "I'll be able to try again."

"Would you prefer that I pedal for a while?" His offer sounded sincere, but he still managed to get in a barb, "While you go sit in a corner."

"Frankly, I'd prefer that you'd…" the Professor wanted to say something else, but stopped himself, "just keep listening for the correct vibrational frequency."

"Well, you've proved your theory at any rate. You've succeeded in creating a carrier wave signal that will travel about 3.04 meters"

"Or across the space-time continuum."

"Depending on how you look at it."

"Ah, I see you're someone who has to have the last word."

" _Bien sûr._

The Professor just shook his head; there was no sense continuing this verbal sparring. It could go on indefinitely, and would accomplish little, for every statement made, Hinkley had a rebuttal: sign, countersign.

The thought occurred to him so suddenly that it nearly knocked him from the turbine's saddle. _For every sine wave there's an inverse sine._ He'd been pedalling on a constant. If he was going to punch a hole into an alternate universe he needed to be pedalling on two axes—the positive, which he had been doing, as well as the negative, which would be the reverse. For every pedal forward, he'd need to reverse his momentum and pedal backwards, allowing each wave to create its inverse.

He started pedalling again, at first simply forward to regain control of the turbine for what he would do next. Once he had built a rhythm that felt sustainable, he countered his motions. Forward. Backward. Forward. Backward. Each movement mentally timed to be consistent with its opposite.

At first the radio began to hum, again with the same low frequency it had so far only been able to attain. After what felt like hours of pumping, but was actually only a few minutes, that same eerie electronic hum began to grow, almost taking on a life of its own. This time, though, there was no blinding flash of light as had happened previously from the ball lightning; it was like a ripple was forming in the ether, widening to give the Professor and his counterpart a small glimpse into another universe.

The sight was, at first breathtaking, like looking through a kaleidoscope of colours that the human mind wasn't meant to comprehend. Drawn by the wonder he was witnessing, the Professor stopped pedalling, as much mesmerised by the glow as his counterpart.

Even without his pedalling, the hole was remaining stable, ever so slowly enlarging in size.

"It's working," said Hinkley, relieved to be finally returning to civilisation from this accursed island.

"Yes," The awe in the Professor's voice was barely audible above that incessant electronic whine. He had already stepped from the pedal-powered turbine to join Hinkley in seeing what no human, to their knowledge, had ever witnessed.

The colours were so vivid that the Professor could almost feel the radiance emanating through the gap, drawing him as well as Hinkley into it.

The electronic tone began to rise, turning into an electronic squeal. It snapped the Professor from his reverie just long enough for him to understand what he was viewing.

Hinkley was preparing to launch himself through the gap which had grown almost wide enough for a man to walk through.

"My God, man. No!" The Professor grabbed his alternate self by the arm, and began wrestling with him to keep him from walking into what his mind had finally grasped what they had been seeing in slow, horrifying motion through the interdimensional gap.

*.*.*.*.*

Gilligan, the Skipper and Mr. Howell all recognized that ungodly sound when it began. When they heard the Professor's garbled shout, they wasted no time in running for his hut. For all they knew, the experiment had gone wrong, and the Professor needed their help.

Throwing open the door to the hut, the Skipper and Mr. Howell, like the Professor and Hinkley before them, were swept away in awe at what they were seeing from a parallel dimension, and halted in their tracks, leaving Gilligan in the unenviable position of running smack into the back of the Skipper. The first mate had not seen the radiance that held the others in its thrall; he could see only that the two Professors were fighting.

"Skipper, Mr. Howell stay back," yelled one of the men, over the ear-piercing electronic sound.

"Let me go," shouted the other, as he fought all the harder to break free.

This is what Gilligan's instinct had feared: that the Professor had been right about that universe being on the eve of destruction.

*.*.*.*.*

The women were not much further behind than the men. But with the Skipper and Mr. Howell already blocking the entrance, and Gilligan trying to push his way through them, there was little they could do.

Ginger being the tallest, tried to look between the Skipper and Mr. Howell, but was blocked by Gilligan. "Girls," he shouted. "Whatever you do, don't look!" They'd never heard the first mate bark a command at them like that.

He dropped to his knees, and crawled between the Skipper and Mr. Howell, reminding himself to keep his eyes closed, while trying to use his memory to manoeuvre around the hut. But that was no good, with the debris throughout it, he had no idea whether he was going toward or away from the Professor and Hinkley, or heading straight for that dimensional rift.

"Ginger," he yelled, as he stood, "Can you tell me if my voice is coming toward you or away from you?"

"Away from me," she replied, as anxious as the first mate obviously was.

"I-I'm going to turn around and face you. Keep your eyes only on me, don't look at anything—even the Professors—" he shouted.

"All-all right, Gilligan, I'll try." She saw the top of his white sailor cap bobbing up and down.

"Mary Ann, Mrs. Howell. Try to turn the Skipper and Mr. Howell toward you and away from the inside of the hut."

For Mrs. Howell, it was the easier assignment, "Thurston," she shouted, as she turned her husband to face her. "Thurston, can you see me?"

"Lovey?" he was like a man awakened from somnambulism. He grabbed his beloved wife in his arms, and held on tightly, tears streaming down his cheeks. She led him away from the hut, and back to the community table.

"Skipper! Skipper!" Mary Ann yelled.

When that obviously did no good, she started hitting him on the back to get his attention, like one would to someone who was choking. She still could not get him to turn away. In desperation, she remembered what Ginger had said about kicking a phony casting director in his 'audition parts'. "I'm sorry about this, Skipper," she said, as she let out with a kick that doubled the big man over, and forced him to his knees, and then onto his side in pain. She apologised, and forced his eyes shut, while trying to keep herself from looking ahead.

Gilligan hurried back to help his Skipper up, and grab Mary Ann by the arm to drag her away.

"We've got to go back," cried Ginger, her voice barely audible above that horrible electronic scream. "We can't leave the Professor in there with that madman."

"I will," he said, "Just help me get the Skipper and Mary Ann away from here."

She did as he said; it wasn't like there was much choice anyway.

The Skipper was panting painfully from Mary Ann's kick; but the tears streaming down his face had little to do with the physical pain he was experiencing. "I-I'll stay with him," she said, grabbing Gilligan's arm. "You try to get the Professor out of there before it's too late."

*.*.*.*.*

Gilligan had no plan for getting the Professor out, and that piercing electronic noise was doing nothing to help him concentrate.

Opening the hut door, he kept his eyes focused on the floor, refusing to look ahead.

"Professor, are you okay?" he asked over the sound.

"For the moment."

Gilligan could still hear the two men struggling, and watched as two pairs of legs danced around what he could only figure was the gateway.

"I've got to get back there," shouted Hinkley. "You don't understand."

"It's too late for your universe," said the Professor, still struggling with his doppelgänger. "Don't you comprehend that sound? What you're seeing?"

The other shook his head. "Your stupid morality. Don't you realise what we've accomplished?"

This time, Gilligan saw the second pair of legs being yanked toward what he assumed was the opening.

"It's already closing. If I don't get through now, I never will." The second set of legs pulled the first pair back.

Back and forth, he didn't know which was which. "Professor?" he called.

Both voices answered "yes", almost simultaneously.

 _Hoo-boy,_ he thought to himself, _How am I going to tell them apart?_

"Come with me." Though out of breath, the voice was as smooth as silk.

"I'm trying to save your life, you fool," wheezed the Professor.

Again he saw the two pairs of legs moving from one side of the room to the other. Until finally one shoved the other pair from his sight. The other pair had also disappeared from view.

"Professor," he asked again. "Are you all right?"

He heard a strange sound mixed with the eeriness of that shrill electronic whine, but didn't hear the Professor's reply.

"I-I couldn't stop him, Gilligan." The Professor replied from where he'd landed on the floor, after having been shoved away. "I tried. But he wanted to go through the gateway, even knowing what was there."

The Professor was about to turn off the radio to shut the gateway, but performed one final act, throwing the circuit board through the shrinking remains of the interdimensional hole.

Whether or not the hole had some sentience was impossible to know, but it immediately sealed itself once the circuit board passed through it.

"He went back where he came from, Professor." The first mate finally felt confident enough to look straight ahead of him.

The Professor quickly turned off the radio, and the hut fell silent again.

"Why?" the Professor asked the question more of himself than Gilligan.

"He wanted to go home," answered the first mate honestly. "That's all he ever wanted since arriving here."

The Professor shook his head, "But he knew what was happening there. He saw the same brilliant light we all did."

"Maybe…" Gilligan hesitated, searching for an answer he wasn't sure he had. "Maybe, he wanted to make peace for himself in his world, and that was the only way he could do it."

"It was the waste of a life, though," replied the Professor. "No one else needed to die."

"There might still be people there. People like us," said Gilligan, "who can rebuild their world. Even if he's not _our_ Professor, he might help them in the same way you've helped us."


	11. A Man of Conscience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note :** |  This chapter may contain a slight AU in that within my own mind, I always imagined the Professor to have been about 30 when the _S.S. Minnow_ was shipwrecked. I realize that Russell Johnson was about ten years older than his character, but then so was Bob Denver.  
> ---|---  
  
* * *

**The community table had been spread with a feast of the Professor's favourite dishes.** But what was to have been a joyous celebration—the return of Dr. Hinkley to his own universe, and the potential ability to send a carrier wave over the low frequency AM band—had little more enthusiasm than a funeral dirge.

It had taken hours for both the Skipper and Mr. Howell to recover their composure: the burly seaman and the kind-hearted millionaire had both witnessed something that their minds could barely comprehend. That iridescent kaleidoscope had beckoned them into an unholy abyss, and it was only because of Gilligan's quick action—with the help of the three women—that the pair had been spared.

"Professor, what exactly _did_ we see?" The Skipper's voice was hoarse.

The Professor had been pushing the food around on his plate. He, too, had not been immune from that almost irresistible pull from the chasm between universes. "I believe what we were witnessing was a suspension of time between our world and Hinkley's." He averted his eyes from his companions, hoping to avoid explaining to the others what Gilligan surprisingly already understood.

"But that light, Professor," began Mr. Howell, his voice shaky, even as his wife gently squeezed his forearm, "it was indescribably beautiful. It felt almost…alive."

"In a way," said Gilligan, seeing how difficult it was for the Professor to talk about what happened, "it was."

The Professor looked at the first mate, thanking him with a nod for coming to his aid. But he knew things couldn't end there. He recalled the aphorism, _the truth will out._ _Maybe it's time for the truth to come out about a lot of things._

"Gilligan, thank you," he said, "but the fact is that light wasn't life." He closed his eyes, thinking of that isolated moment suspended in time. "It was death."

The others looked at him with dread.

"It was the flash from an atomic explosion in that universe. Isolated in one unending moment between our two worlds."

"But the radiation? The devastation?" spluttered the Skipper. "Those things are only supposed to last a split second."

"Whatever deviations existed between Hinkley's world and ours, time on both sides would have appeared stopped from whichever side you were viewing it. So, the atomic flash and subsequent detonation, from our perspective, was suspended within time."

"And that sound from the radio?" asked Mr. Howell.

The Professor shook his head. "I don't know. It could have been anything from the background noise from the space-time continuum to the plaintive sound the universe makes when one of its planets ceases to exist."

"He had to know what you knew, Professor," said Ginger.

Mary Ann finished her friend's thought, "Why would he go back to a world about to destroy itself?"

"For the same reason I would have," he began, "to atone for what he did."

"But, Professor," said Mrs. Howell, "you're nothing at all like that vile man."

"Thank you for that, Mrs. Howell." He smiled slightly in her direction, grateful for her confidence in him, but then his face became sombre again. "But I'm more like him than any of you realise."

A chorus of defence from his six friends denied what he was saying about himself. He let them talk things out amongst themselves, knowing that at the moment, he wouldn't have been able to get a word in anyway.

Finally, when the others had quieted, and the pall of silence had reclaimed the table, he began. "I was eleven when it happened. Funny, I still remember it like it was yesterday…"

*.*.*.*.*

" _Mom, do you know where Dad keeps his books on microbes?" He was only half-listening to Red Skelton on the radio, as he turned the last page of the book he was reading._

" _What do you want those for?" While his mother had come to indulge all his interests, his innate intelligence had pushed him so far ahead of his peers that she worried he was missing out on his childhood. Already, the University of Chicago was sending tutors to his elementary school, hoping that their interest would spur his family to decide on enrolling one of the youngest academics they'd ever had. He put his empty glass of milk beside him on the floor, as he, and his younger brother, Russ, laughed together at something Clem Kadiddlehopper said._

" _I want to look up something." He was trying to sound serious, but he couldn't hide his laughter._

" _It's probably in his study," she smiled along with him at the joke on the radio, while his three-year-old sister, Rebecca, squirmed in his mother's lap. "Do you want to get down, honey?" The young girl nodded, and jumped off the sofa to be next to her older brothers._

" _Okay," he nodded at his mother's answer, turning back to listen to the radio._

_Red Skelton gave his familiar sign off, "Good night and may God bless."_

" _This is Rod O'Connor for The Raleigh Cigarette's Program featuring Red Skelton. Stay tuned for Lum & Abner on most of these NBC stations. This has been an NBC presentation." The familiar NBC ding-dong-ding chime went off, and the show was over. With another commercial following about buying war bonds, and rationing._

" _When will the war be over, Momma?" asked Russ. At seven years old, he was more familiar with a world at war than one at peace._

" _Soon, honey," she said. "Soon."_

_Roy stood up, picking up his empty glass and book. "Mom, can I go look for the book now?" he asked._

" _You'll have to ask your father when he comes up from the basement. You know how he feels about that study of his."_

" _Boy, do I." While neither of his parents had ever hit him or his siblings, his dad had made it very clear that certain areas of the house were off limits. He'd lost his radio privileges for a week because of entering the study without permission, to look for a book on geology. He wasn't about to repeat the same mistake twice._

_His dad was a US Army Major stationed in Chicago, and he'd accidentally overheard part of a conversation between him and another officer about some project for New York they'd been working on. Roy never told anyone, because he remembered what they taught him in school about loose lips, sinking ships. Besides, except for his brother and sister there really wasn't anyone to tell. With all the tutoring and special attention he'd been receiving at school the last couple of years, what few friends he still had considered him weird that he liked studying as much as he did._

_He heard his dad walking up the basement stairs; that third step always creaked like a scalded cat. Lately, his father looked tired, even when he wasn't in uniform, but Roy really wanted to find that book on microbes. He placed his empty glass in the kitchen sink, while he waited for his father to come upstairs._

" _Dad," he ran to his father, who despite how tired he might have been always had a smile on his face for his children. "Dad, can I read your book about microbes?" he asked._

" _Are they teaching you something about that in school already?"_

" _Nah, but the book I was reading talked a lot about them, and I wanted to look something up."_

_His father nodded his head. "Go to it, champ. In a few years, who knows you might be teaching me about them."_

" _You're the smartest person in the world, Dad. There's nothing I could teach you."_

_He ran back through the living room—Lum & Abner were talking to Martha Raye, who was on their show that week. It must have been pretty funny, because even Becky was laughing up a storm—but that could wait until he found the book he wanted._

_The study doors were thick and heavy, and slid quietly on their tracks back into the walls when he pulled them apart. The blackout curtains were always kept drawn in there. Dad said it was because he had a lot of valuable books, and didn't want the sunlight to ruin the paper. There were books everywhere: on philosophy, science, math, literature; there were so many he'd read already, and so many more he still wanted to read._

" _Microbes," he said, climbing up the study ladder to look on one of the shelves where he thought it ought to be. There was a book on the Spanish Influenza, another on polio, and still another on small pox, but nothing with the title of "microbes". He saw another one that wasn't bound like the others, and pulled it out reading the title, "The Long-Term Effects of Poison Gas on The Great War Veterans". That sounded like it might be interesting, even if it wasn't the book he'd been looking for._

_He slid down the ladder (as he'd been told countless times not to do), and landed with a soft thump on the carpeted floor. Putting the book on his father's desk, he started to thumb through the pages: there were charts and graphs, and some photographs of people in hospital, when a random paper on the desk with some numerical equations caught his eye. He picked it up, looking at the calculations, when something struck him as wrong with the final equation. He worked on the numbers in his head again, and his answer still came out the same, different from what was on the paper._

_His father entered the study, asking if he'd found the book he was looking for._

" _I think so." He showed off his prize._

" _That looks like some heavy reading, there."_

" _It's not that heavy." Smiling, he hefted the volume easily._

" _Dad, did you know you got a mistake in your calculation?"_

" _What calculation?" His face turned as white as chalk. "What did you see?" He grabbed his son by his shoulders, shaking him gently._

" _N-nothing. It was just sort of lying there, and it looked funny. The answer's not correct. That last fractal's wrong." His father looked at him strangely. "This paper?" He held it up. "Was that the one you were looking at?" His father's voice sounded angry._

" _I'm-I'm sorry you're mad at me. I didn't mean to look at it. Honest." For the first time in his life, he was actually afraid of his father._

" _No-no, Roy, I'm not angry. Which fractal did you say was wrong?"_

_He pointed to it, explaining the logic behind why the equation was wrong._

" _Do you realize what you've done?"_

" _No, sir," he shook his head._

" _You've saved us about three month's worth of work." He hugged his eldest son tightly. "Because of you, you may have just shortened this damned war."_

*.*.*.*.*

"I shortened the war all right. I helped to complete the Manhattan Project. Of course, I didn't know it at the time."

The silence at the table was palpable, even the constant sounds from the tropical birds and insects had appeared to join the castaways solemnity.

It was Ginger who finally broke the silence. Her voice sounding far louder in that eerie quiet than it actually was, "You were eleven years old, Professor."

"You can't blame yourself for something like that," said Mary Ann. "You were just a child."

"Professor, someone would have eventually solved that same mistake, surely," added Mrs. Howell.

He shook his head, "But it wasn't someone else. It was me. Those people in Hiroshima and Nagasaki are dead because of what I did."

"That's not true, Professor. There were people all over the country doing the math—from scientists to engineers to math majors," said Mr. Howell, knowingly. "You were just a cog in a humongous wheel, trying to end a terrible war."

"Don't you realise how much Hinkley and I are the same? I started down that same road that led to the obliteration of his world." He laughed harshly at the irony of it all, "I was the star pupil, courted by more universities than I can count."

He squeezed his eyes tight as much as to recall the memories of those days as to block them out.

"Even though I received my first degrees from USC and UCLA, I was spending time discussing relativity with Albert Einstein, quantum theory and particle physics with Enrico Fermi, even the neutron bomb with Samuel Cohen. I was on the fast-track to making my name in this new, unchartered field. It would have been so easy to do as Hinkley had done, except I had a chance meeting with Robert Oppenheimer."

"Gosh, you worked with all of those people, Professor?" asked Gilligan.

"I had no idea," said the Skipper, "I just thought you—"

He finished the Skipper's sentence, "worked in the Cleveland public school system. They were the only place that would hire me, after I refused to work any longer on something that could obliterate civilisation and end all life on this planet. I-I just couldn't continue on, knowing that eventually some madman might be set loose with a weapon I had helped develop."

After five years of knowing the Professor, they could understand why he felt the way he did.

"Needless to say, my decision put me at odds with my family. My father, who was a General by then, disowned me, and I couldn't put my mother, brother and sister in the middle of our quarrel. When Hinkley said he was on his own at twenty-two; so was I."

"But with all that happened, Professor, you proved you could never be like him," said Gilligan. "I was there when you tried to keep him from jumping through the hole!"

The Professor rose, "Don't you see? After we leave the island, the world is going to be such a different place than it was before we set sail from Hawaii. I know what I have to return to: Hinkley himself said it best, _a life of mediocrity._ And I can't continue to hide from myself anymore in that. I've had the opportunity to witness the darkest side of myself, and know that that will always be some part of me. If, you'll excuse me." He didn't wait for the others to reply, as he hurried from the table, following the trail to the lagoon; nothing they could say or do could wash the blood from his hands.

*.*.*.*.*

"Oh, the poor Professor," said Ginger, tears slowly falling down her cheeks.

"There must be something we can do for him," whispered Mary Ann, choking back her own tears.

"He's been living with this for a long time, girls," said the Skipper. "I'm not sure any of us are up to the task."

Mary Ann was livid. "You're not saying to give up on him are you? He's done so much good in his life, I'm sure of it. For us here on the island, too."

"Captain, this isn't the time to leave someone alone, even if it's something he thinks he wants."

"Lovey, you're certainly right about that."

"I know what it's like to think I'm a lone wolf," said Gilligan, "and that nobody cares what happens to me."

The others looked down at the table, ashamed at the way they had once treated the first mate.

"You're right, Gilligan," said the Skipper. "We're his family now. There may be a dark side to him, like he said, but we've seen the light side, and we can't let that ever be taken from him again."

*.*.*.*.*

The Skipper led the way with the other five following close behind; the Professor hadn't done anything to cover his tracks. He supposed that after what they had been told that they wouldn't want to follow him. For a genius, how wrong the man was. The question was what were they going to say; this was one situation where words were not going to be enough, no matter how heartfelt they were.

*.*.*.*.*

The light from the Skipper's torch illuminated the lagoon's beach enough to spot the Professor sitting with his back against a rock. It was just a silhouette, but it was enough.

"Professor," called Ginger and Mary Ann almost simultaneously.

He didn't acknowledge their presence, but threw a stone into the lagoon, watching the rings of ripples form through the tranquil water.

They all knew he was physically and emotionally exhausted from these past couple of days, which certainly didn't help matters.

It was Gilligan who first approached the Professor. "Do you mind if I sit here, Professor?"

"Do what you want, Gilligan," was his only response.

"You know you've got everyone really worried about you. Mary Ann and Ginger can't stop crying."

"There's no reason for them to cry over me. I made this bed, and I shall lie in it."

The first mate finally asked the question that he'd wanted to since earlier that day. "Hinkley wanted to jump through that hole or whatever it was? Why did you stop him?"

"As much as I hated everything he stood for, I didn't want him to die…not like that."

Ginger approached quietly, with Mary Ann by her side, "So, if you didn't want one man to die, and you did everything in your power to save him," she said.

"Then," began Mary Ann, "you never would have wanted thousands to die, either. Don't you see that Professor? You were a boy of eleven…"

"You could no more stop those attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki then, than you could have stopped the typhoon that stranded us here," said Mrs. Howell.

"Adults make decisions for war," said Thurston Howell III, "not children. Never children. Not even the brightest child in the world."

"If you've got blood on your hands, Professor, then so do I," began the Skipper, "I fought in that war, I know what I was fighting for and against."

"Please," his voice cracked, "just leave me alone."

There was a chorus of _no_ in reply.

"We may not have been one in the beginning, but we're a family, now," said Mary Ann. "And real families don't let any member suffer alone." She kneeled alongside the Professor.

"You've suffered in silence too long, Professor," said Ginger, joining her roommate. "We've listened, and we've heard your anguish."

"No matter how much you think you could be like him," said Mary Ann gently. " _We_ know you better than you think you know yourself."

Though his face was still shrouded in shadow, they heard his voice catch, as he tried to speak. Their Professor, a man who was never at a loss for words and who all too rarely revealed his emotions, was crying.


	12. For the Future

* * *

**A glorious sunrise crested over the horizon,** as its mirror image danced across the surface of the lagoon: its reflection appearing to ripple through the water from a warm breeze that was gently drifting its way ashore. It appeared to be the start of another beautiful day.

It had been a long night for the castaways, each attempting in his or her own way to provide some comfort to one of their own.

For the Professor, though, physical and emotional exhaustion had finally overwhelmed him. A thin blanket had been lightly draped over him, as he uncharacteristically clung to Mr. Howell's beloved teddy bear: perhaps an unconscious reminder of those lost, happy days of his own childhood.

The Skipper beckoned the others away from the Professor; so, that they could talk without disturbing him.

Still keeping his voice low, afraid that the gentle breeze might carry it and awaken their friend, the Skipper began, "Thank goodness, he's finally asleep."

"He's been through so much already. I haven't the heart to wake him," said Ginger.

"The question is what do we do when he does awaken?"

"You're right, Mrs. Howell," replied Mary Ann. "How do we convince him that even with all that's happened, he's still _our_ Professor, and we'll always be there for him? No matter what."

"Maybe that's all we have to do," said Gilligan, "just be there for him. Like you guys are always there for me, even when I mess things up."

While the Skipper agreed with his first mate's idea, he wondered if it was practical: Gilligan and the Professor were nothing alike. And while some of Gilligan's goof-ups might have kept them from being rescued, they didn't compare to the self-inflicted pain the Professor had been carrying inside himself for so many years.

"The lad may be right, Captain. He's the same man he always was; surely, nothing's changed among us in that regard."

The six castaways nodded in agreement with the millionaire.

"But," continued Mr. Howell, "as much as we all care for the young man, I think I should be the one to talk to him, if we can convince him to return to camp with us, that is."

While the Skipper wasn't angry at Mr. Howell's offer, some of the old rivalry between he and the millionaire resurfaced, "Why you?" he kept his voice on an even keel, not wanting to let any jealousy overshadow what was no doubt a heartfelt offer to help the Professor.

"Because Captain, in some ways, I do understand what he's feeling right now."

The others looked at the millionaire questioning his reasoning. "The war was a costly one; not just for the Professor."

"Thurston, if you're going to be discussing money at a time like this." His wife was aghast.

"No, my dear." He patted her hand, affectionately. "For once this has absolutely nothing to do with finance."

Though hushed, their voices must have still carried on the breeze, because the Professor stumbled groggily over to join his fellow castaways: Mr. Howell's teddy bear tucked securely and incongruously in the crook of his elbow.

"I'd like to thank you all for what you tried to do last night." Usually impeccably groomed, there was a day's growth of stubble around his chin, and his eyes were puffy from both lack of sleep and the tears he had quietly shed. "It was more than I deserved."

"Professor, old man, when you feel up to it, I think we both need to have a chat."

Thinking Mr. Howell was speaking of his beloved Teddy, the Professor apologized, and gently handed the stuffed bear to the millionaire, thanking him for the gracious use of it for the night.

"No, Professor, that's not what I meant." Though, he did clutch tightly to his bear.

"Mr. Howell, if it's more of what was discussed yesterday, I think you know my answer."

The millionaire was nothing, if not shrewd, "You may have an answer, Professor, but you haven't heard the question, yet. And I think it's something you need to know."

The others looked at Mr. Howell, none had any idea what he planned to tell their friend, and they were all concerned that in the Professor's state of mind, the millionaire might push the scholar to his breaking point.

*.*.*.*.*

Having showered and shaved, the Professor began the arduous task of attempting to clean up the wreckage that had been his hut. At least for the time being, it would keep him out of sight of the other six castaways. Once he had at least this part of his life in some order, he could decide where he would go and what he would do while they were still stranded on their tropical island home.

Looking about at the mess, he knew that it was a reflection of himself, and he didn't know how to begin to pick up the shards of a shattered life.

There was knock at his door. Another one of his friends, no doubt offering their attempts to help him: something at the moment for which he wasn't ready.

He ignored the knock, but this time it was insistent. "Professor, I think we need to talk." The millionaire's voice was as confident as ever that no one would ever turn away a Howell.

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Howell, but I'm quite all right, at the moment."

"No, you're not," Mr. Howell, replied softly, "But I didn't come here to offer words that you've chosen to ignore. I've come to offer those you may know nothing about."

The Professor was taken aback at the strange tone in Mr. Howell's voice; while the millionaire could be devious in getting his way, he didn't seem to be using that tactic. "We _need_ to talk."

Opening his door, the Professor beckoned Mr. Howell in. The millionaire immediately made himself as comfortable as he could on the one upright stool that stood in the corner of his room.

"Professor, you spoke yesterday, as though you held the sole responsibility for what happened to make V-J Day possible. But you weren't."

The Professor was about to speak, but Mr. Howell cut him off before he could begin.

"Many industries were geared up for war work, even before the Manhattan Project was planned," he said. "As much as FDR and I didn't agree on many things, when he asked for my help with converting some of my factories to the cause, I couldn't refuse. Howell Industries helped make parts for submarines, tanks, munitions, as well as anything else requested by Secretary of War Stimpson."

"But that was nothing like the Manhattan Project," interjected the Professor

"No, but how do you think I felt about the bombing of Dresden? Those weren't only Nazi soldiers killed by bombs one of my companies helped make; there were thousands of German civilians incinerated in those raids, as well." He shook his head sadly, thinking of the women and children who had been killed in the shelters that had been designed to save their lives. "There wasn't anyone from that time who wasn't somehow touched by the war. That's why the world needs men like you, Professor. Men who have the courage to stand up and say, _No more!_ You said you feared a _life of mediocrity._ My God man, standing up for the survival of this planet is perhaps the bravest thing any man could do."

"Mr. Howell, please—"

"No, I want you to hear me out without that impeccable logic of yours coming up with a counter-argument. In the past, I've offered you your own research facility—half-jokingly, of course—but I'm offering you something now. Something much greater. You, Oppenheimer and other scientists have stood up against the proliferation of nuclear weapons. Should we ever be rescued, I'm offering you a post in an organisation designed to stop the insanity of war, once and for all. It likely won't happen in mine or even your lifetime the way the world is going, but with men like you at the helm, this planet may one day know peace." Mr. Howell held out his hand by way of a gentleman's agreement.

The Professor was dumbfounded by such a generous offer. "I-I can't accept," he said quietly.

"Why in heaven's name not?"

"Such an organisation needs someone who carries weight within the scientific community. A school teacher from Cleveland is hardly that person," said the Professor, "The idea is certainly a sound one, though, and I'd be honoured to work with such an organisation, but I'm certainly not the one to lead it."

"Believe me, young man, I know how to pick leaders: men who are forward-looking thinkers, and that's you, Professor."

Although a bit hesitant, the Professor took Mr. Howell's hand and shook it.

"To the future," said Mr. Howell.

" _For_ the future," corrected the Professor.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Notes :** |  This story is dedicated to Russell Johnson: the Professor who made the unbelievable believable; as well as to the rest of the beloved cast from this television classic. Also, to my Grand Uncle Peter, who was one of the many mathematicians to have unknowingly at the time worked on the Manhattan Project.  
> ---|---  
  
* * *

**It had taken days for the Professor to get his hut back into the regimented order he preferred.** But slowly, he was seeming more and more his old self.

Whatever had been said between Mr. Howell and the Professor remained a mystery to the others. They just knew that it had somehow helped snap him from his depression.

He had once again started taking his meals at the community table and not remaining isolated, even sometimes joining in the banter among the others, though still not as often as he had. It would no doubt be slow going, and everyone was still cautious about what they said and did.

"Mary Ann, that smells wonderful. What is it?" he asked, as the delicious aroma wafted on the breeze.

"A coconut and pineapple cream pie," she replied. "I hopes it tastes as good as it smells."

"I'm sure it will."

"I'll get it," said Gilligan, happy to be of help, and also hoping to have the first slice. He got up from the table, and hurried to the kitchen area.

Racing back with the pie, he tripped, and it unceremoniously landed in the Professor's lap.

"Gilligan!" yelled the Skipper, about to let loose with a tirade, when he was stopped suddenly by uproarious laughter.

Laughter that was loud and heartfelt. It was the Professor. Trying to salvage his dignity, as best he could, as the tears of laughter rolled down his cheeks, he scooped the remnants of the pie off himself and onto the table. His laughter was infectious, and the rest of the castaways couldn't help but join in.

"Little buddy," whispered the Skipper, "you've done it again."

_~ Finis ~_

© 2015 Dash O'Pepper


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